


Man out of Time

by ChimericalAstronomer



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Friendships, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimericalAstronomer/pseuds/ChimericalAstronomer
Summary: How do you live when the world moved on without you?This takes place about a week after the first Avengers movie.
Kudos: 6





	1. In the Beginning

Steve wakes up a sweaty mess, feet tangled in the baggy grey comforter that doesn't insulate well enough.

He's cold. He's always cold.

The sounds of other people going about their lives just outside the door is normally a distraction, but today Steve finds it grating. It's almost unbearable to be neighbors with nineteen other people on a good day, and on the days Steve can't find his way out of the past the time trickles by in achingly slow moments. Someone in the hallway sneezes, and Steve grits his teeth. They thought being around other people would help after being isolated for 70 years. That watching other people carry out their lives would help him figure out what to do with his. SHIELD handed him a room key the day he checked out of medical and pointed him down the long grey hallway to room 221, which turned out to be the equivalent of a studio apartment that was just built. The entire thing is a flat, dull blue expanse of sturdy necessities that all point to his ineptitude and circumstance.

He is an old man in a world that aged without him. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and one of the navy t shirts that appear in the brown boxes in his mail slot. Maybe he has money to get different clothes, but he doesn't know how to get it and he won't trouble the agents about it. These work alright for workouts, anyway. He grabs a towel and slips on his tennis shoes, snags his shield from where it sits by his headboard. It's five thirty in the morning and he knows by experience that he's not getting back to sleep.

He opens the door onto the charcoal carpeting and shuts the door behind him, ignoring the fact that his door doesn't lock. There's a single flimsy deadbolt on the inside that he can lock if he wants the semblance of privacy. He's broken through enough of them to know the lock is a formality. He goes to the training area, taking the stairs to start warming up his muscles. There's about fifteen flights, but he'd rather jog them than take the chilly metal box of the elevator. The stairwell door opens onto a side area where he slips off his shoes and pads onto the mats, where he stretches for all of five minutes before giving in to that animalistic urge to hit away his frustrations. He tapes up his hands to protect them from the little damage they can sustain and begins beating away at the nearest bag, a red and white one that dangles from its hook like a dead thing. Can't even bleed for the people you left behind. The serum makes sure of that.

He's alone this morning, which isn't unusual. Most other agents come down after their day has already started, when they've had their toast and throwaway cup of bitter coffee and answered their emails. Steve does none of these things, and so is able to go and practice until they start to come down. He always ducks out when he hears their footsteps in the stairwell, leaving the bag swinging on the hook. They used to come and watch him, a few subtle glances his way while they trained under the guise of being competitive, but they figured out pretty quick that he knew they were watching him.

He gets through a good half hour of practice on the punching bag, which has become less about keeping in shape and more about the unnervingly cathartic feel of sinking his fists into something that will take it as long as Steve needs it to. Today, his ears are ringing when he steps away from the bag and unwinds the tape. His hands are barely pink around the knuckles even after the beating they just took, but the bag dangles on its hook like he hasn't even touched it. He growls low in his throat and heads over to the target range, snagging his shield and his shoes. Today is one of those days, the ones where the past hangs in his mind like a blanket and all he can see is the expression on Bucky's face as he slipped out of Steve's hands and into the abyss. Today, he needs an escape. The third time the shield flies from Steve's hands, he's aiming for the cardboard cutout instead of the wall.

While he sometimes likes to work out the exact force he needs to rebound the weapon, he discovered a closet where the extra practice models are kept. The black-coated paper shears under the edge of the shield, and Steve retrieves the disc, inspecting the blow. The model is neatly severed in half, the feet still attached to the ground and the top half of the figure a few feet away on the ground. He hates to waste these tools when they could last someone several rounds of target practice instead of a single blow, but they make taming his emotions easier. He gets through two more cutouts before the ringing in his ears goes away. On some level he's disappointed in himself for wasting all these targets but he's far enough down that he doesn't truly care. Besides, when he practices, sometimes he breaks a sweat and has a few moments of being truly warm.

He hears footsteps pounding down the stairway and finishes putting the cardboard pieces in the trash slot just as a few agents come out onto the floor, clad in matching SHIELD sweatpants and sporting handgun belts. They look like they're ready to use the range, so Steve leaves them to it, ignoring the weight of their eyes on the back of his neck as he exits the floor. No matter how he puts it, people will never see him as anyone other than Captain America, the shield-wielding hero who punched Nazis a lifetime ago. There's no point in telling them otherwise.

Steve Rogers isn't the one they want to see. SHIELD wants Captain America, the hero they dug out of the ice and resurrected to fight the Chitauri.

Steve makes the trek up the staircase and back to his room to drop off his things, ignoring the shower despite the sweat sticking his shirt to his chest. Later, he tells himself. His nerves are still tingling with the adrenaline of the morning. There's no need to add a spray of cool water into the mix. He tugs on a different shirt and heads to get his morning cup of coffee, banking that no one will be there despite his shortened time on the range this morning. Everyone else on this base has a function and a job, a schedule they adhere to. He is the only one with all the time in the world.

He hadn't truly anticipated there being people in the breakroom, but when he opens the door, the cluster of people chatting over their mugs glance over at him, conversation stilling before picking up in hushed tones. There's a woman using the microwave to make oatmeal, and Steve nods politely at her as he gets a mug out of the cupboard. Someone threw on a fresh pot not that long ago, so he pours some and stands off to the side, pretending to look over some magazines someone left. The woman on the cover of what he assumes is a modeling magazine wears a dress like plastic wrap, claiming to be the most highly paid model of 2012. Steve stares at her picture for a minute, finding himself comparing everything different about her to his time. Her bleach-blonde hair to his favorite shade of brunette. The streaks of black around her sultry eyes to the resolve and challenge of Peggy's. But this is his time, he corrects himself. Then, and now, and for the infinite future. Time remembered Steve Rogers, and it did not wait, even for national heroes.

The coffee goes sour in his mouth, and he sets the mug in the sink, feeling the familiar feeling of panic rise in his chest. He moves to get to the door, to go back to his room and feel the new familiarity of his quarters cover the sounds of his fear, but is stopped in his tracks by the cold that accosts his bare arms as an agent opens the freezer door of the break room refrigerator. There's no way he can feel it over here, but he just knows. The plastic packaging of their frozen meal scrapes over the shelf, and Steve's stomach does a flip.

His world narrows to a tiny tunnel view before exploding outward again. Steve flattens himself against the coffee machine, his fingers pressing to the counter in an attempt to steady himself. The oatmeal woman slides her hand over the counter, and her ring grates over the top of it, sending the hairs on Steve's neck to stand at attention. He shivers involuntarily and she looks over at him before continuing her conversation with the man next to her. Something mundane. Cars? Music? He can't bring himself to care. The freezer door shuts, and in a cruel twist of fate the ice inside the little door rattles.

The whole room tilts on its axis, a rotating blur of ragged carpet and straight backed chairs that signal wrong, wrong, wrong and suddenly he's sitting on the ground and the room is quiet and empty except there's a pair of gleaming brown wingtips two feet from his sneakers.

His breath hitches in his chest and the involuntary reaction to this, his body decides, is to clench his fists even tighter, along with his stomach, which is churning like boiling water. He feels the skin break where his nails are biting into his palms. There is a soft exhale from above. Steve looks up into the haze of fluorescent lights to see a man in an impeccable grey three piece suit. His face swims into view and Steve feels his stomach turn to stone.

"Howard?" He's blinking and gasping up at the man who flew him on a suicide mission, who designed his shield and worked alongside Peggy. Someone else made it through. He doesn't let himself get trapped in the hows, only on the now. Howard is here, and he's not alone anymore. Howard crouches down, the corner of his mouth twisted up, and Steve's heart does a funny jump.

"Sorry Cap," he says, "But I'm Tony."


	2. Little Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds sanctuary in unexpected places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Not sure if anyone is waiting for updates but I'll keep posting as long as there's interest. Thanks for reading.

He’s not sure how much time has passed.

Maybe a second, maybe five minutes.

All he can do is stare into those dark brown eyes and see the face they should belong to.  
Howard is dead. Howard is dead, and he’s not coming back.

Howard’s son is still crouched on the floor in front of him, and he sticks a hand out. Slowly, evenly, like he might get burned if he touches Steve. It’s a different side to the inventor than Steve saw in the battle, where the man’s mouth ran faster than his suit. He doesn’t have time to contemplate it, however.

“Do you think you can get up?”

Of course, he can get up. Steve’s able bodied, more so now with the serum. He’s already healed from the battle, and he trained hard this morning.  
But when he goes to stand, his legs bow at the knees, and he sags halfway against the wall like a marionette with half its strings cut. He hears a slight tapping and realizes his fingers are shaking against the cabinet door behind him, vibrating like they have a mind of their own.

“Hey,” Tony says, and Steve snaps back to the situation.   
“I have a car out front. There’s an elevator just down the hall, and I have some good coffee back at the tower.” His head jerks to the side as someone knocks on the doorframe, and Steve’s breath hitches, but Tony is only looking at the door. “Just one sec, cap.”

The smaller man eases to his feet and strides over to the door, sticking just the upper half of his body out. Steve can hear the faint ebb and flow of what sounds to be a very cutting conversation, ending with a sharp remark from Tony, and then the man comes back in. Steve’s eyes slide down to his shoes.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I’ve got the good coffee in my kitchen and Natasha is going to drive the car back for us if that’s alright. She came with me to sort out some sh- stuff. I’ve offered her a room in the tower. You want to come with us?” Tony extends a hand, his palm up, the gesture oddly tentative, and Steve can see the callouses on his palm, worn between the fingers and the scrape along one nail bed.

Steve’s chest feels tight, his hands are clammy, and his breath is starting to hitch in his chest. He’s got a training regimen planned for this afternoon, and a manila file folder on his desk full of paperwork he needs to fill out for the medical team. But when he looks back up, he sees Tony is still looking at him, oddly focused and still. The man never seems to focus on one thing at a time, but in this moment, he’s looking at Steve like he’s got all the time in the world.  
Steve thinks of his queen-sized bed with the sweat-soaked grey comforter and the bitter taste of SHIELD coffee. He thinks of the barrack style showers and the white circle of a clock face in his kitchenette.

Steve sticks out his hand, and Tony pulls him upright, giving his shoulder a single solid squeeze and dropping his hand like it’s freezing cold. For all Steve knows, it is.

“Come on, Cap.”  
Steve follows Tony out the door, down conspicuously empty hallways and between conference rooms that all have their doors shut. Eyes follow them as they pass, but no one interrupts them until they near the elevator. Tony walks with his head up, shoulders back, like he’s clearing the way for Steve, even though Nick Fury himself is waiting for them by the elevator bay and his posture makes it clear they’re going to have some words. 

“Where you headed, Stark?” Fury is leaning up against the wall, a stack of file folders clutched far too casually in his weathered hands.  
“Home, eyepatch.” Tony thumbs the button for the elevator and Steve’s ears pick up the almost imperceptible whir. Fury’s eyes move from his reports to Steve’s hands, and Steve realizes belatedly that they’re still shaking. He brings them behind his back, falling into a parade rest stance, and pointedly looks at the elevator doors. Fury’s single dark eye blinks slowly, like he’s put something together. Or maybe a lot of things.

“You taking Captain Rogers with you?”

“Yep.” Tony rocks back on his heels. “Is that an issue?”

There’s another brief silence, in which Steve keeps his eyes carefully forward, looking not at Fury but at Howard’s son. His son, who is everything and nothing like his father.   
The physical sensation of loss rocks Steve again, somewhat harder this time, like a gut punch, and he sees Tony make an abortive move back towards him right as the elevator doors open and Steve twitches in response. 

“It’s only an issue unless we don’t see him again. And remember what we discussed.” Fury’s tone is brusque, but when he steps away from the wall it’s with a quiet ‘At ease, soldier’, before he’s gone down the hallway.

Tony steps into the elevator and gestures at the space next to him. Steve steps in right as the doors begin to close, and they begin their descent.   
For once, Tony is uncharacteristically quiet, and Steve is grateful, but he can see Tony watching him carefully from the corner of his eye.

“I can see you, you know.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Tony nods. “You’ve probably got super vision up the wazoo.”  
Steve snorts, feeling the shaking in his hands subside. He takes in a deep breath, feeling the void in his chest get pushed down with the intake of oxygen, and lets it out in a rush as the elevator doors open. 

Tony glances at him again, but doesn’t say anything as he strides across the lobby, one of his hands clutching a sleek, modern looking phone. His thumb taps away at the key pad even as he crosses the shining grey tile floor, people parting before him like a wake. Heads turn as they cut through the lobby but they’re out the doors soon after, stepping out into the bright afternoon sun that spreads warmth over Steve’s shoulders and sweeps down his back, warming the chill settled under his skin.  
Idling beside the curb is a very expensive looking dark SUV with its windows tinted dark, and Steve tenses, but the passenger window rolls down and he sees a familiar face framed in red curls. 

Natasha isn’t wearing the tight-fitting bodysuit from the battle, but instead a comfortable brown leather jacket, jeans, and a pale green shirt. Wide, mirrored sunglasses hide her eyes, but her voice is as cool as ever as she unlocks the doors and Steve climbs in the backseat. 

“Hey, fellas. I thought you’d like to know that Fury called me the second you opened the lobby doors.”

Tony snorts, climbing in back next to Steve instead of up front like he expected. The action is surprising, but Steve feels himself become marginally less tense.   
“Eyepatch is just making sure we’re not kidnapping his main man.” He gives Steve a wink, some of his smooth-talking bravado coming back. “Don’t you worry, Steve. We’ll bring you right back the second you want to.”

The sentence hangs in the air and Steve knows he should try and contradict Tony, tell him SHIELD is great and there’s nothing wrong, nothing at all, that he loves being at SHIELD and that he should really go back to his room.

But he can’t seem to open his mouth, and so the words burn just behind his lips, sitting on his tongue in the heavy way only a lie can.


End file.
